


Lying Games

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-20
Updated: 2012-11-20
Packaged: 2017-11-19 02:41:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/568159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m tired of your little lying games, Stiles,” his father says almost mocking his chosen name, as he stalks out of the hospital room.</p><p>He’s tired too, but he doesn’t say as much. None of this was a game, as much as he wished it was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lying Games

**Author's Note:**

> This is the fic I wrote for the Teen Wolf Fanfiction Contest MTV held a while back. I'm finally getting to post it now that my account here is set up. Enjoy!

“ Stiles. _Out_.”

The patrol car’s door shuts with a defiant thud as the Sheriff’s son ignores his father’s command and climbs into the passenger seat with a large paper brown bag in one hand.

“Yo, dad,” Stiles responded, undeterred by the dirty look being sent his way.

“Stiles,” the Sheriff sighs, “what are you doing here?”

“What?” Stiles sputtered indignantly, “A guy can’t bring his dad some food so they can eat together for once?”

The Sheriff’s glare softens immediately. They haven’t spent time together for what seemed like months, let alone ate together like a family should do. The Sheriff would blame it on conflicting schedules, what with his line of work and the fact that Stiles is still in high school, but he can’t say he hasn’t avoided his son a few times without lying. There was something wrong between them, tension when they spoke. There was just so many lies one could take without it resulting in a confrontation; something the Sheriff didn’t want happening – he loved Stiles too much to yell at him like he wanted to at times, he was afraid of losing his son if he pushed too hard.

The older man swallowed the lump forming in his throat and Stiles almost felt guilty for pulling that line on his father.

Almost.

He had to protect his father from the latest supernatural shit-storm that came to Beacon Hills in the form of an alpha pack. A freakin’ _alpha pack._ As if they needed more crap to deal with after the Gerard and the Kanima fiascos.

Half of the Sheriff’s department had died in one night during the time. Many of those people had been working alongside his father for years, had been there to help after his mother’s passing, and Stiles couldn’t even help any of them. It’s something that will stay with him for years, another burden of guilt he’ll have saddled on his shoulders. He thanked whatever God that might be out there that Ms. McCall and his father came out alive.

Now he just needed to _keep_ them alive, which is why he was in the car, busting in on his father’s stakeout in the first place.

Isaac had swung by his room – no, literally _swung_ in from where he was on the roof to the inside of Stiles’ room through the window when Stiles came in, scaring the bejesus out of the human teen – a few days ago to warn him about the alpha pack. When Stiles visited the burnt husk of a home that used to be the Hale residence to ask what the hell was going on, Derek had explained (and wasn’t that a miracle, Derek _actually_ explaining something instead of melting into the shadows) that the pack had plans to kidnap the sheriff. Derek said it was because having control of the sheriff meant having more control of the territory, but Stiles wasn’t listening at that point. All that mattered was that he kept it from happening.

“I bet you wish you said yes to my offer right about now, don’t you, Stiles?” Peter had whispered in his ear, with the usual mocking smirk on his face.

Stiles left immediately, not wanting to let Peter know how right he was. Even if the older man probably knew already. 

He had run into Chris Argent not too long after that. The man looking older and wearier than Stiles remembered. They exchanged stiff greetings, a mere nod of their heads, but Argent grabbed onto Stiles’ sleeve before the boy could leave.

“Listen, buddy, I got ‘a go, so if you don’t mind…” Stiles let his sentence trail off at the look on the older man’s face. He remembered seeing that same look on his own father’s face after his mother passed away. Sadness stained the man’s eyes, thinly veiled by a false antagonism – daring anybody to question his state of being. Stiles figured he should listen to whatever the man had to say, at least give him that respect.

“This isn’t your war to fight, kid,” Argent says, and before Stiles can retort he continues, “but you fight anyway. I don’t know whether to call you brave or stupid.”

“Gee, thanks,” Stiles snorts, rolling his eyes.

“You’re welcome,” Argent deadpans, “If you ever want to train under me with Allison, you know where to find me.”

Stiles takes a moment to let the words sink in before he understands what was being offered. He begins to shake his head, almost unconsciously; he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t betray Scott’s trust like that, even if the Argents didn’t seem to be trying to kill anyone lately.

“Just think about it for now. I know how close you and Scott are, but remember that he had no issues with teaming up with a hunter to protect what he loved, so why should you?”

A moment of silence passes before the hunter moves to leave, but Stiles stops him with his words,

“Mr. Argent?” the man turns back and Stiles looks him in the eye, “My condolences. Tell Allison I said that to her as well, and that she shouldn’t blame herself for anything.”

Stiles leaves with that because he knows that asking if she’s okay is stupid, she obviously wasn’t. He doesn’t blame her for anything she did either. If Stiles was in her shoes, and he’d lost his father to this mess, he’d be out for blood too.

Stiles remembers a time when he and Scott used to complain about the lack of adventure Beacon Hills had and how much they’d wish that something would happen so that their lives wouldn’t be boring anymore. He almost scoffs at the memory, the words “ _be careful what you wish for”_ coming to mind.  

“So what’d you bring your old man?” the Sheriff speaks, breaking Stiles out of his thoughts.

Stiles opens the bag in his hands and takes his own food out before giving the rest to his father. His father takes out the veggie burger with a crinkle of his nose, like Stiles knew he would.

Whatever, the man had to watch his heart.

But then the Sheriff looks back into the bag, his eyes widening almost comically at the contents.

“Curly fries?” the Sheriff looks at the cup of fries with exposed pleasure, and says with a bit of incredulity, “What are you up to, kid?”

Instead of mentioning that it’s because he feels sorry for all the things he’s done lately, Stiles just shrugs and says, “I just thought you could use a little break from your diet.”

Then a thought suddenly occurs to Stiles that has him narrowing his eyes at his father, “That is, considering you’ve stuck to your diet and haven’t been sneaking in greasy food behind my back.”

The Sheriff purses his lips and fidgets slightly in his seat.

“How did you even know I was here?” he changes the subject. Stiles wasn’t the only one who knew how to deflect. Albeit horribly.

  He already knew the answer. His son always had a thing for listening into his phone calls. Stiles doesn’t answer him either, instead giving him a shit eating grin that he can’t help but roll his eyes at.

“Curiosity killed the cat, kid.”

“Ah, but satisfaction brought it back, Dad. See, people always leave out the end. It’s a shame really, not to know the whole story.”

The Sheriff cuffs the boy on the back of his head, causing Stiles to squawk, before digging in to his curly fries and completely neglecting the veggie burger resting on the car’s dashboard. The happy moans coming out of his father’s mouth were equal parts adorable and disturbing for Stiles, but he was content to watch his father enjoy himself for once. After a few minutes the light bounces off of his father’s left hand in an odd way, and Stiles’ throat constricts at the sight of the wedding ring still on his father’s finger.

“You know I’d do anything for you, right, Dad?” he says, unusually maudlin. He was hit with the compulsion to make his father understand this one thing.

The Sheriff looks over his son, taking in the boy’s suddenly intense eyes and the way they burned with something that made the Sheriff uneasy. Even as a child, Stiles wore his heart on his sleeve – an open book for everyone to read. But lately that book has been closing; the words on the page smearing and some pages seemed to have been ripped out. He wonders if Stiles’ mom would have been better at this, and promptly thinks of something else.

Better to focus on Stiles and not the things they’ve lost.

“Like, telling me the truth,” the Sheriff raises his eyebrow, keeping the anxiety off his face so Stiles won’t see, and continues before Stiles can deflect, “you know, about the things that have been going on with you lately?”

There’s a shine in Stiles’ eyes now, his jaw clenches and he opens his mouth before closing it again and turning to look out the window.

“What I just told you is the most important truth,” Stiles murmurs, so soft the Sheriff barely caught it. The older man didn’t know whether to grab Stiles by the back of the neck and shake until he was told everything, or hug his son and never let him go.

He didn’t get to do either as dispatch radioed in.

“Unit one, do you copy?”

Stiles sat uncharacteristically still; he didn’t even reach for the radio.

The Sheriff pushes his worry to the back of his mind. He had a job to do, after all.

“Unit one, copy.”

“We got a report of a possible 415 at the Beacon Hills baseball field.”

Years of research on police scanner codes told Stiles that there was a disturbance at the baseball field. He could only hope that this wasn’t the alpha pack at work.

“Alright, son, it’s time for you to go home.”

“Oh, come on, dad! It’s probably a bunch of stupid kids breaking in the field to play. No reason for you to kick me out,” Stiles pleads with his eyes.

The Sheriff resolves to take his son along after all, deciding Stiles was safer with him than outside by himself at this time of night. When they pull up at the field, he immediately spots the broken chains, and he can make out at least two figures in the center. Stiles grabs his arm before he can move out of the car.

“Hey, why don’t you call in backup before you go out there?” there was a strain in his voice, “You know, before you go out there like Superman and stuff.”

  The way Stiles’ eyes never left the two figures was unnerving, and before he knew it, the Sheriff called in an 11-99 to dispatch before prying Stiles’ hand off his jacket, getting out of the car and heading out towards the field. Help would arrive whether he needed it or not.

As soon as the Sheriff made it to the two people, however, he was struck unconscious. Stiles immediately took action in grabbing the Sig Sauer that his dad kept in the glove compartment for backup and shoots at the two as soon as he is out of the car.

He managed to catch one in the shoulder and the other in the chest before he reached his father. Judging from the snarls being sent his way, he figures that the intruders were indeed from the alpha pack he’d been dreading; which meant that those bullets wouldn’t do jack against their healing abilities because they weren’t laced with wolf’s bane.

Stiles mutters a string of curses under his breath and went for emptying his clip into the werewolves in front of him, adrenaline kicking away any fear he had inside of him. The inevitable clicks he got when he squeezed the trigger came too soon for his liking, and one of the alphas threw him into the fence.

He drops down with a cloud of dirt surging upwards, obscuring his vision even more than the night already did, though not enough that he didn’t spot the abandoned bat a few paces away from him.

“You should have stayed home, Little Red,” one of the two alphas snarled.

Stiles snorts at the stab at his fashion choice. He loved his red hoodie, irony or no, but at that moment he regretted not taking Lydia up on her to go shopping. Then again, Jackson probably wouldn’t have liked him hanging around his girlfriend anyway.

“Whatever, dude. I’m not afraid of the big bad wolf,” he retorts.

What a lie that was.

“I can smell your –“

The alpha was cut off when Stiles swung the discarded bat at his head. Stiles had watched enough movies and read enough comics to know that villains loved to hear themselves speak and that those were the moments that seemed best to strike. Not to mention that he didn’t really want to hear about werewolf abilities and how much of advantage it made them have over the petty human.

There was a sickening crack that told Stiles he’d probably broke the alpha’s skull, but he couldn’t think about that too hard as he was too busy trying to get away from the other one’s strikes. As long as he kept the focus off his father, he was content. Back-up should be arriving soon, and the alphas were too smart to stick around when that happened.

He cries out when one of the alpha’s hits land; a deep gash in his chest, and then another, a punch to his ribs so hard he’s sure that something broke. He finds himself on the ground for the second time that night, with two pissed off alphas looming over him – their wounds closing while his burned fresh as ever.

“Enough of this, _boy_ ,” one of them spits as he raises his clawed hand in what is sure to be a fatal strike.

Stiles can’t help but think that this is what hell must be like; fighting against something you know you’ll lose against. He swallows convulsively.

_If you’re going through hell, keep going._

With Ms. Morrell’s words in his head, he sticks his hand in the pocket of his hoodie where he kept some of the mountain ash Deaton gave him and hurled it at the werewolves’ eyes. They howled in pain, backing off from him almost instantly and after his ears stopped ringing he could hear the sirens from the back-up that was on their way. He sagged in relief and the world seemed to have blacked out in front of him.

When he wakes up again, it’s to a blinding white light. He tries to swat it away when a hand grabs him.

“Easy, son, Melissa is just trying to check for a concussion.”

Stiles blinks a few times before his vision presents a worried Ms. McCall and his father hovering over him.

“You were out for a while there. You have sustained more than a few injuries, including a couple of cracked ribs. What the hell happened, Stiles?” and there goes Ms. McCall’s worried mother’s voice that both warmed and hurt Stiles’ heart.

“I don’t –“

“Oh, come on Stiles!” his father roars, “Don’t you dare tell me you don’t remember!”

Stiles bites his lips, nearly whimpers at the need to tell his father everything. Instead he swallows thickly and says, “It was dark, and –“

“You emptied an entire clip of bullets, Stiles. There’s blood all over the field, some of it _your_ blood and you’re telling me you can’t remember a single thing?”

Stiles just closes his eyes, “I can’t–“

“I’m tired of your little lying games, _Stiles,”_ his father says almost mocking his chosen name, as he stalks out of the hospital room.

He’s tired too, but he doesn’t say as much. None of this was a game, as much as he wished it was. He opens his eyes when he feels a light squeeze on his hand.

“You should tell him, Stiles. I know this has something to do with the werewolf…thing. But I won’t tell him if you won’t,” Ms. McCall says, and he could almost cry at how understanding she is. With a small smile she leaves the room, giving him time alone to think.

In the end, he can only come up with one thing; he has to ask Derek for the bite. It’s the only way he could protect his father and keep him out of the loop at the same time without dying as a result. That is, if the bite won’t kill him.

He makes his way to the Hale house once he’s free from the hospital and his father’s prying eyes. All the while he hopes Derek would say yes; hopes that Derek wasn’t too traumatized by the way his current pack turned out and ended up thinking Stiles would end up being another Jackson with a Kanima problem, or another Erica or Boyd that turned their backs and ran away.

He also hopes that Scott wouldn’t mind too much. Maybe it would bring them closer; it did wonders for Isaac, who seemed to be closer to Scott now than Stiles was. He really tried not to be bitter about that, but Scott was his best friend so it was kind of hard not to be.

“Derek!” Stiles yells, into the dilapidated space. “Derek! I need to talk to you, so stop hiding in the shadows like a creeper.”

Stiles hears a creak of wood being stepped on behind him, and it takes everything he has not to jump out of skin. He spins around wildly, his nerves getting the better of him considering what he was there for.

“Derek,” he starts, but then he gulps, “not-Derek.”

“Nope. Hey there, Little Red.”

The alpha gives him a grin full of sharp teeth.

Derek probably wouldn’t have given him the bite anyway, Stiles thinks.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I was thinking of leaving it off there. But I'd continue it if people were interested.


End file.
